


My New Roommate Has Wings

by pencilguin



Series: The Other Mes Live With What They've Got [8]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilguin/pseuds/pencilguin
Summary: In which Hugh is a perpetually overworked doctor who lives with a cat named Angel and an angel named Paul.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Series: The Other Mes Live With What They've Got [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1332434
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. In Which Paul Makes a Mess and Becomes a Health Hazard

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of ficlets I wrote for a very, very old AU idea of mine - actually my first Culmets AU, I think - all the way back in 2018, and posted on Tumblr. I always hoped that I would actually write the whole fic one day. But the more time passes, the less likely it seems - a lifetime might not be enough to actually write all the fic ideas this show has given me since I started watching and joined the fandom.  
> But who knows - I just reread my notes and I still love this one very much, so maybe, one day. Until then, here are a few excerpts from that universe. They're not directly connected to each other, and they're unbeta'd. Also old and only slightly brushed up. 
> 
> The original idea for this AU came from @nerdqueenenterprise and was adopted with permission.

It happened from one day to the next, really.

As Hugh came home from another brutally early shift one Thursday, he was greeted by a little cloud of delicate, fuzzy flakes floating right into his face. The particles tickled his nose and made him sneeze before he had even managed to set both feet into his apartment. While trying to wipe his eyes that had started watering immediately, he looked around and saw fluffy, white, downy little feathers of varying sizes scattered all over the room, on the wooden floor tiles, on the carpet, on the table, on the sofa—it was hard to spot a surface that was completely spotless.

After a moment of confusion, panic set in.

“Paul …?” he asked carefully. No response. “Paul?” he repeated, louder this time. Still no response. Had something happened to him? Had he been attacked? Was he hurt? Kidnapped? Or—

“Paul!” he shouted now, unable to keep the panic out of his voice, looking around frantically.

Then the balcony door creaked and Paul stepped back inside. He looked unharmed.

“Paul!” Hugh yelled in a mix of relief and exasperation. “Jeez, don’t scare me like that! What happened here?” He gestured around at the feather-covered mess that was his apartment.

Paul looked around curiously, as if he hadn’t even noticed. “Oh.”

“What, ‘oh’? What’s going on?”

Hugh sneezed again. His vision blurred slightly.

“Uh… it looks like I’m molting again.”

“Molting …?” Hugh asked incredulously. “And what do you mean, ‘again’? How often does this happen?”

“Uhh… about twice a year,” Paul said. “How else do you think these” —he pointed at the wings on his back— “stay in such immaculate condition?”

Hugh snorted while wiping at his eye again and noticing a prickling feeling creeping up on his exposed forearms. Paul’s wings were a mess right now, looking ruffled and patchy and a lot less impressive than the first time he had seen them, even if there was no blood on them this time.

“You look more like a half-plucked turkey.”

Paul furrowed his brows and scrunched up his nose indignantly. “Well, that’s what tends to happen while molting. This is usually the time I’d retreat into privacy, but since it seems I can’t escape _you_ while I’m here …”

“You’re still free to leave at any time, you know,” Hugh retorted. “How long does this usually take, then?”

Paul shrugged. “A couple of days. Relax, it’s not such a big deal.”

“Paul,” Hugh said, and it came out harsher than he had intended, but the itching was getting worse and had now started spreading to his neck, “I have a feather allergy.”

Paul’s eyes went wide with surprise. He opened his mouth, but didn’t manage to come up with a response. He kept staring at Hugh instead.

Hugh sighed loudly and shook his head before he made his way over to the cabinet where he stored his cleaning supplies. Paul followed him clumsily.

“But—but I thought you were fine until now! Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he stammered while Hugh grabbed a pair of gloves, a cleaning cloth, and a spray bottle from the cabinet.

“What difference would it have made? I couldn’t just send you away with no place to stay, could I? Besides, I assumed this arrangement would only be temporary. I didn’t know you were going to _shed_ all over my place while you’re here.” He put on his gloves and started wiping down every surface and getting rid of the fuzzy flakes, sneezing again in between. “And before, it was fine. It’s mostly the small downs and feather particles. As long as I don’t shove my face into your wings, it _shouldn’t_ be a big deal. Unless you start molting everywhere, of course.”

“I—” Paul started, embarrassment tinting his cheeks a slight pink as Hugh slammed the bottle down on the kitchen counter and dropped the cloth next to it with a little more force than was necessary, to go and get his vacuum cleaner because, _hell_ , the itching on his skin and in his nose just kept getting worse and every step they took whirled up white down clouds from the floor. “I’m sorry, Hugh.”

He turned around to look at Paul. He looked genuinely sorry, barely daring to meet Hugh’s eyes, his brows drawn together in an angle like a roof over his deep, blue eyes. Hugh found himself unable to resist the immaculate impression of a kicked puppy that Paul was presenting.

“It’s fine,” he finally said. “Just stay out of the way here for a moment, okay? And watch where you’re molting from now on.”

Paul spent the rest of the afternoon mostly curled up on the cozy armchair in the corner of the room, guiltily watching Hugh as he vacuumed and wiped everything and cleared the place of the fluffy offenders.

***

Hugh’s fingers had been drumming an impatient staccato rhythm on the countertop, but they stopped abruptly when his pharmacist returned to the reception desk with his prescription medicine.

“I hope this will help you, Hugh. Man, you look terrible. What kind of allergic reaction is that?”

“Feathers,” Hugh croaked. His throat had been itchy and burning for the last twenty-four hours straight, and he was well aware that his red eyes and the rashes on his skin made him a rather unpleasant sight. The fresh air was helping a bit, but the feather dust must have settled _everywhere_ in his hair and the fabric of his clothes by now, and the only way to get rid of them would probably be a full CDC approved decontamination procedure. And he couldn’t really stay out of his apartment for several days just because it was very tiny and Paul’s wings had a lot of feathers to shed. “My new roommate has—” Hugh quickly caught himself before the word “wings” slipped out. With a forced smile he said, “—chickens.”

The pharmacist stared at him, confusion clear on his face.

“Damn, Hugh. I know you love animals, but I already thought it was a bad idea to keep that stray cat when you’re allergic to cat hair. You need to stop doing shit like that to your body, it’s not healthy.”

“He’s not a stray. And I’m not here to discuss this with you, Rick,” Hugh responded after a frustrated sigh. “The chickens are staying. Just give me the box, please.”

“Okay, fine, I’m just saying …”

Hugh paid for it and left, not exactly looking forward to spending the rest of his weekend curled up in a blanket next to the open balcony door, drugged and trying not to freeze to death or to peel off his own skin inside and out to stop the itching, instead of enjoying a Saturday night out with his friends after an exhausting week at work like he used to until a few weeks ago. But he knew Paul would be mopey if he left him alone, and despite Paul’s usual jerkass attitude, Hugh hated the thought of him being miserable.

***

After he got home, Hugh poured himself a large glass of water, took his allergy medicine, opened every window, and flopped down on the couch. He tried to take slow, deep breaths, and after a while, he felt the medicine kicking in and his airways starting to clear up. As he looked around the room, he noticed that the feathers were mostly gone right now. Paul must have cleaned the place again shortly before Hugh got home. Where was he, anyway?

Hugh sat up and listened. There were muffled noises coming from the bathroom. He might be wrong but they sounded vaguely like swearing. Seriously, the potty mouth on that so-called angel was startling. He slowly got up from the couch and walked over.

When he opened the bathroom door, the dusty air hit him like a truck. _Everything_ was littered with white fluff, and the flakes were floating through the room like the wild ballet of a million dandelion seeds. In the middle of the cloud was Paul, his wings partly expanded in a way that looked painful and crooked because they barely fit into the tiny bathroom. Hugh coming in made him spin around, his brows furrowed in frustration at whatever was going on in there.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here, it’s bad for your allergy.”

“I picked up my allergy medicine on the way home,” Hugh said between coughs after inhaling a mouthful of feather dust when he entered the room. “What’s going on, Paul?”

“I’ve been trying to—to groom my wings, to help the molting process—and to maybe not lose as many feathers all over the apartment, but I—I can’t reach every spot and it’s a fucking nightmare—” he rambled while attempting to brush the feathers on his back near the roots of his wings.

Hugh watched him for a moment with an odd mix of sympathy and amusement before he said, “Come here, let me do this.” He reached out and Paul handed him the soft brush he had been trying to use. “Not in here, though,” he added, “this is way too cramped.”

“Are you sure about this?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Hugh said confidently as he led the way out of the bathroom. He noticed how timid Paul was acting today, far from his usual prickly self. They settled down on the couch, Angel rolling up in Paul’s lap and quickly dozing off—who would’ve thought, the little monster seemed to be warming up to him after all, it seemed—and Paul turned his back to Hugh as he started carefully brushing the stray feathers on his wings.

“You’re quiet today,” Hugh said after they had sat like this in silence for a while. “Everything okay?”

It took Paul a moment to respond. “Yeah, I’m just … I’m sorry, Hugh. For the mess.” He gestured at the room.

“It’s okay,” Hugh replied. “I’m sorry, too. For my temper. I’m just cranky because of the allergy.”

“Sorry about that too,” Paul said quietly, bowing his head.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, okay?”

“But you’re stuck with me now.”

“I’m not—look, Paul. You were in trouble. I couldn’t _not_ help you. It’s fine, really.”

“Why are you always so nice? You could just kick me out. Maybe you should.”

Hugh pursed his lips and placed the brush on the coffee table.

“I don’t want to kick you out, Paul.”

His wings were looking a lot better already, the newly grown feathers smoothed down now rather than sticking out in all directions. Hugh noticed the symmetry of the patterns in which the old feathers were being replaced by new ones. He once had read, long ago, that in birds this was in order to keep their balance during partial molts. Slowly and carefully, he reached out and dared to touch the feathers, consciously, for the first time. To his surprise, they felt even softer than they looked. He couldn’t help but bury his fingers deeper into the soft, warm fluff. The prickling on his skin from the allergy was barely noticeable for now, and this felt nice—a bit like brushing through fur, or hair, despite the different texture of the feathers. Gently Hugh started scratching the places where the old feathers hadn’t fallen out yet to help loosen them. After a few seconds he could feel Paul relax, slightly leaning into the touch.

“This feels nice …” he mumbled. “Thank you, Hugh.”

Hugh smiled. “No problem.”

They spent the rest of the evening like this, in comfortable silence, until both of them eventually dozed off, slightly curled up against each other on the couch.


	2. In Which Hugh's Apartment Mysteriously Greens Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was originally written and posted as part of the Fictober 2018 challenge on Tumblr.

The first time it happened, Hugh blamed being tired from an endless, exhausting shift that left him stumbling home into his apartment, barely able to see straight, so he must have completely forgotten about that plant pot that he almost tripped over while putting his shoes away. (Well, technically “while throwing them into the corner”, but his mother wasn’t here and he wasn’t going to channel her now that he finally had his own space.) So he went on his way to the bed where he just let himself fall forward, face down, onto his pillow, and didn’t move until his alarm sounded several hours later.

When he walked past it the next day it didn’t even register to him that it was there.

***

The second time, he was washing his dishes when he noticed a small pot standing on the kitchen counter. He blinked a few times at the sight of it, confused. It looked a lot like a plant he’d once had a long time ago but that had died under his care, like every other one he had ever tried to keep. He tilted his head this way and that, looked at it from different angles. Of course his memory wasn’t that clear anymore, and in its final days the plant had looked like a mere shadow of itself. This one looked as fresh and vibrant as it had on the first day.

But then his phone rang and he was pulled into an hour-long conversation with his mother until his dishwashing water had gone cold, and he completely forgot about the plant.

***

By the third time he started to really suspect that something was going on. He reached for Angel’s food on the shelf and his fingers brushed against something that definitely hadn’t been there last time, startling him.

Standing on tiptoes (because his cat was a sneaky little shit who managed to get everywhere except the highest shelf, which even Hugh himself had to stretch quite a bit to reach) he assessed that thankfully it hadn’t been a giant spider brushing over his skin but the long, thin leaves of a houseplant—Hugh wasn’t a botanist and he didn’t know nor particularly care what kind it was—that he was very sure this time _he_ hadn’t put there.

He furrowed his brows. Usually when something was up, his first suspect was always Angel. That cat was so hilariously misnamed Hugh honestly couldn’t tell if it had been a horrible misjudgment of character or an expression of incredible irony on the previous owner’s part. He had been thinking about renaming the little shit “Satan” but didn’t want him to get above himself—even more than he already did.

“Did you do this?” Hugh asked Angel who had promptly slithered around the kitchen corner because he’d heard the rustling of his food container, and his tone and body language were probably much too serious for such a ridiculous accusation. As usual, Angel just ignored that, briefly rubbing against his legs before he jumped onto the counter and vocally demanded to be fed.

“Of course you didn’t. You only break things, don’t you?” Hugh sighed while he poured cat food into Angel’s feeding bowl with one hand and pushed his head away from it while doing so with the other. “Am I going crazy now?”

***

The fourth time happened two days later, when Hugh got home and found a freaking _tree_ standing in a large pot next to his couch. It looked like some sort of palm, and this time, Hugh was one hundred percent positive that he had never seen the thing in his life and that it most definitely hadn’t been standing there, or _anywhere else_ in his apartment for that matter, when he had left the place. The thing was _huge_ , and the pot was heavy, and no matter how ridiculous the theory of his cat being possessed by an evil spirit already was in reality, there was no way the small creature could have moved that in here.

After a few moments, when the functioning, rational part of his brain caught up with the thoughts that the rest of it had been running away with, Hugh sank down onto the couch, staring at the monstrosity beside him. It had to be almost two meters high. Where had it come from? It was in a pot, so it hadn’t just grown out of the old floor, though otherwise that wouldn’t even have surprised Hugh, with the state that the building was in—though maybe not so suddenly, as his brain so helpfully reminded him.

But that meant that someone, somehow, for some reason, had brought it here. Who could do this? And why would they? Or how? None of his friends or family currently had a key to his apartment, and really, they knew him well enough not to leave anything green in his care. Hugh had never had any trouble taking care of animals, or humans. But handing him any plant would be its certain doom.

His landlord had a spare key, probably. Hopefully it hadn’t been him, because he’d never knowingly give Hugh anything potentially good. If it had been him, the thing was most likely infested, or poisonous, or secretly had a taste for human flesh.

_… Shit—poisonous._

Hugh jumped up from the couch. Then he spent the next few hours searching his apartment for stowaway plants (and to his embarrassment, he found a lot more than he had been aware of), checking if Angel had been chewing on any of them, and trying to identify them and figure out if any of them were dangerous to house cats.

At last, the sound of the door opening and Paul returning home interrupted him. Hugh looked up to see him carrying a large bag full of groceries in his arms—and a plant.

“You!” he yelled and strode over to him. “You’re the one who’s been bringing home all those plants!”

Paul blinked at him, then furrowed his brows. He pushed past him while his wings reappeared and set the groceries down on the kitchen counter, then placed the plant pot next to them.

“Hello to you too,” he said grumpily without looking at Hugh. “Yes, that was me. Good job on finally noticing them.”

“Why didn’t I realize this earlier?” Hugh muttered to himself. Then he walked up to Paul, who was now unpacking the groceries, his mouth a thin, straight line, and still stubbornly avoided looking at Hugh. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I actually noticed some of them earlier, but I thought I was going crazy. I’ve been spending the whole afternoon trying to figure out what kinds they are and if it’s safe to keep them in here.”

Finally, Paul turned around and looked at him, lips still pursed and raising an eyebrow at him.

“I made sure none of them are poisonous, so Angel is safe. I’m not stupid.”

Hugh let out a breath in relief.

“Uh… that’s good to hear. Umm, thank you, Paul.”

At Hugh’s words his expression softened a little. Then he returned his attention to the groceries and started putting them away.

“Your apartment looked like a dead wasteland. Did you really keep nothing green at all? I would have gone crazy.”

“Yeah, I …” Hugh fumbled with the hems of his sleeves nervously. “I don’t really have a green thumb. Every plant I touch tends to die. Quickly. But in a lot of pain.”

Paul snorted. “Well, I’m going to take care of them then. I’m much better at nurturing plants than animals, actually.”

“Where did you even get all of these?” Hugh asked after a while. “Especially that huge-ass tree. How did you carry that all the way home?”

There was the raised eyebrow again. _You continue to underestimate me_ , it seemed to say.

“I adopted them,” he simply answered, and something about his voice made Hugh decide to leave it at that. “I’m planning to get a few more, by the way, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, sure,” Hugh quickly responded with a wave of his hand. “Go wild. It might actually be nice to have some green around here for a change. Especially if it stays green.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Paul grinned at him. “I’ll take care of it.”


	3. In Which the World Isn't Fair and It Makes Hugh Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was also originally written and posted as part of the Fictober 2018 challenge on Tumblr. I forgot why it's in present tense. 
> 
> Is it a spoiler? Probably not. I might still write a whole, multi-chapter fic for this AU one day, but I don’t have the whole plot yet, and it might very well turn out different from this if I ever do. (Does that make this an AU of an AU …?)  
> Also this turned sadder than I expected … I’m sorry. Brace for some angst.

“Paul!”

Hugh finally catches up with him, panting. Paul just stands there, looking at him in silence, his expression unreadable.

“Why are you leaving?”

“Because this is something I have to do.”

“But …” Hugh’s voice sounds as desperate as he feels and he finds that he doesn’t care. “Why are you leaving _me_?”

Paul looks at him, something like fond sadness in his eyes.

“I know I can’t expect you to understand this. This has to be done, and if I don’t do it, no-one else will. Maybe no-one else _can_.” He lifts a hand to cup Hugh’s cheek. “I have known you for a few months now, Hugh, and I know for a fact that if you were in my position, you would do the exact same thing. Which is why I know that what I’m about to do is right.”

Hugh leans into the touch, and he can feel the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“But you won’t come back.”

Paul doesn’t respond, tilting his head the tiniest bit and stroking Hugh’s cheek with his thumb instead.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Paul smiles.

“I really don’t know why you even like me, little human,” he says, and his voice is softer than Hugh remembers ever hearing. “I probably won’t come back. Whether I succeed or not, I’m probably gonna die, and if I fail I most definitely won’t be allowed to return to earth, probably ever, but certainly in your lifetime.”

“If this is your idea of comforting people,” Hugh says while poorly suppressing the sobs that are coming out now, “you’re doing a shit job of it.”

“I wish I knew of anything to say to comfort you, Hugh. But I don’t. All I can offer you is my gratitude for the time we got to share. You are a much better person with the few years you have been living in this world than I have been in the millennia of my existence. Angel or not, I am not someone you should want in your life. Live! Find happiness! Keep doing good! You are one of the reasons why this world is worth existing. You are the biggest reason why I’m going to do what I have to.”

Hugh is properly crying now, but Paul continues.

“If I die, that’s got to be okay. If I live, and we never meet again, I want you to move on. I want you to be happy, Hugh. Don’t worry about me. I will endure it. But I will never forget. I’m infinitely grateful for the time I got to spend with you. I’ll never forget us. I’ll never forget _you_.”

And then he leans closer and kisses Hugh, and he’s sweet and perfect and ethereal in a way Hugh can’t even begin to describe, and he smudges the tears on Hugh’s cheeks, and this is what he wanted for so long _but not like this_.

They part and Paul says, “Thank you, Hugh.”

And then he lets go of him and Hugh already misses the warmth of his touch, and he is frozen, rooted to the spot, as he helplessly watches Paul leave while he realizes too late that he is hopelessly in love.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much to everyone who leaves lovely and supportive comments on my fics! Even if I usually don’t know how to adequately respond to them, please be assured that they make me super happy and brighten my day! <3


End file.
